Black Ice
by KingIradescense
Summary: [NOT BLACKICE] A mutual sadness for the things they had lost laced the air like a toxin, and the pair, despite all that had happened, could still find a small comfort in the understanding of one another. [Oof, guess I felt like adding more platonic Pitch and Jack stuff. T for somber themes. Mild references to the novels.]
1. Chapter 1

_**Clears throat**_

 **So uh... how are ya'll? Good? Good...**

 _ **Nervous chuckling**_

 **Thisinnowayexcusesmylongabsense but I'lltrytoatleastcomebackwithsomeoneshotsmorefrequently**

 **kthxread**

* * *

He can't hate him-

He could never hate him.

At the end of the day, Jack Frost could never hate Pitch Black. He couldn't hate him because he understood, with every fiber of his being, the reason. The thought process. The building anger at everything and everyone was familiar; he knew it well. Its ugly head was... familiar.

Because, he knew what it was like to be hated but necessary. That fact used to give him some small comfort.

Fear and winter are necessary. It not for fear, the human race would have killed itself by now in its own stupidity and blind, misplaced bravery and courage that only now a fool would tow about. If not for winter, the world could never rest. It would run itself to death, one day.

So, when Emily Jane would send him to keep his equivocal grandfather company, he never minded much. Even now, here he sits next to the fallen King of Nightmares himself, one who should be his mortal enemy. They tolerate each other's presence because they understand one another. Jack almost hates himself for it. A sinking feeling would set when he was with Pitch, and yet he doesn't say a word. Sometimes, he wants to scream at him.

They were like friends. They'd never admit it, but they were. They'd spent many a Hallow's Eve party together. They'd spent more a quiet night racing through the streets of a quieted world, and even more in the lair, with the golden words of stories long forgotten by all else swirling around and in their heads.

...

He wanted to yell at him. He wished there was a more outrageous reason that he could be angry at Pitch for. But there wasn't. He understood what was there.

He feels Pitch slouch over next to him; they are near shoulder-to-shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he sees the taller man's chest deflate. Jack gives a world-weary sigh that carries more weight than his physical age should carry and allows himself to lean onto Pitch's shoulder. They remain there; the passage of time is ignored as the light that filters down from the hole above wanes in and out of existence as the celestial bodies overhead march on.

A mutual sadness for the things that they had lost laced the air like a toxin, and the pair, despite all that had happened could still find a comfort in the understanding of one another.

Sometimes, Jack thinks idly, he's not sure where he ends and Pitch begins. And in some ways, it makes him feel less alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**February 25th**

 **For those of you that may read this and are also following my long since never-completed 'So Would It Be Forgotten, or Simply Go Unnoticed?', I'm actually working on completing it. It's going to be one single chapter, so it's just taking awhile for me to get through it because I have to first go through all the chapters that I did complete.**

 **My school break has just ended, so I probably won't be updating for another little while after this. I wanted to send out one more thing before I have to take off again.**

 **I hope you enjoy what I've conjured up for youuuuuuu**

 **Edit: It is now March 1st. Kill me pls**

* * *

Jack Frost remembers when he first awoke and learned of his name. There were things he had long forgotten about that night, but there were things that he knew he would always remember.

The faces of the villagers around him who had walked through him, never noticed him, were forgotten with time. When he recalled those moments, all he could see were faceless people that didn't seem odd because his mind like to think of it they did indeed have faces, were identifiable in a lineup. But he would never be able to tell anyone apart.

He didn't remember how many houses there were, he didn't remember the dogs that had run with the children. He didn't remember how clear the skies had been, or the shock of being crashed into a tree, or just how far he had flown when he had been walked through.

He remembers how it felt when the Wind first grabbed him up, called him a child of theirs and made him their rider. He remembers the rush, the freedom, the excitement. He remembers the shakiness of inexperience that he soon shed like an old skin, now leaping from city to city, country to country, hitting and running on walls and rooftops where he should have crashed and crumbled like a leaf.

He remembers when he first felt a weird kind of heaviness in his chest, his lungs, that only pushed further into his abdomen when he breathed in that even centuries later he still wasn't quite used to. (Honestly, he forgot to even breathe sometimes. It was just more comfortable.)

He remembers the stark feeling of the wind whistling in his ears when he really flew for the first time, the sharp and almost blade-like gusts ripping across his skin and how wonderfully _alive_ it felt.

He remembers when he left the village, feeling lost and alone and not sure what to do with himself or why he was there.

He remembers when he first woke up under the ice. It was dark, and he was alone. The icy water seemed to soak him all the way through and it was as if the seaweed were dark tendrils that wanted to hold him down and keep him there forever - and he remembers when the Moon lifted him up, freed him from his icy and wet prison, and tells him his name in a voice that soothed him and scared the darkness away yet somehow didn't seem real - he wasn't hearing it, he was feeling it in his being.

Jack also remembers when he first met Pitch.

* * *

When he finally slowed to a stop, he found himself in near a foot and a half of snow and horribly lost - in his flight to escape the people who were walking through him and making his chest hurt in a way that wasn't exactly pain but it still felt horrible all the same, he didn't know where he had flown or how far away he was from that place.

He felt his face crumple and his heart wrenched; his eyes felt odd and it seemed like something was supposed to come out of them, something to relieve the pressure building in his chest, but instead, he just felt ice gathering along the lower lids of his eyes.

Instead of devolving and dropping to the ground right there and then, Jack forced his legs to move and just walked for some time. To this day, he doesn't quite know what compelled him to walk away, to keep moving as opposed to breaking down there. But one day, when he could finally accept all that had happened, he was happy that he didn't.

He had walked for a long, long time. He didn't know where he was going and he didn't know when he would happen upon where he was going, so he spent awhile trying to make the trip feel like it was going faster. He counted all the different kinds of trees he saw, which was somewhat limited for the most part. He counted all the animals that he happened upon his path or came nearby. He only saw two or three - an odd-looking flying thing (a bird, his brain helpfully supplied, though he wasn't sure how he knew that), a rodent in its nest, and a deer. It was quite lovely, but it was kind of far away. Having been recently stung with the realization that nobody could see him (he would soon learn that this was for his lack of believers), he didn't want to approach and find that the animal couldn't see him either (though he would also learn that animals could indeed see spirits).

Eventually, he happened upon an old cabin that appeared abandoned. The door was ajar and the windows were cracked in some places and broken in others, planks boarded on them on the outside and curtains that seemed to try to keep the snow out - though now they were drawn. Whoever had lived there had long since left, were long gone.

He found himself standing a few meters away from the cabin, staring at the little building for some time. It seemed so different from the village he had left however long ago, frozen in time. Snow lay undisturbed on the perfectly slanted and symmetrical roof and the overhang of the porch. As opposed to the deep snow around him, there was a thin layer that coated the wood, and shiny, long icicles hung from the edges of it all. At first he hesitated, but still not knowing where to go or what to do, he silently scaled the few steps up to the porch and moved inside. He left no footprints, something he only managed to note now.

The door swung open just with the wind that blew in gently with him, it creaking loudly. Somehow, the sound that failed to belong to nature brought him some comfort in the otherwise silent forest. The moonlight filtered in gently through the open curtains, illuminating the dust particles that floated around the room. The floor was covered with a thick layer of the stuff, and the walls showed their age as the slightest gust brought it to croak with its years.

Idly, he had brushed a finger gently along the surface of one of the windowsills. When he brought it up, there was a notable grey coating his finger. He wiped it off on his cloak, walking a few steps further into the little house.

It was then that he heard the silky voice that was, in the future, quite familiar to him.

"You must be who I'm supposed to find," it had said, and at first Jack had been startled - all he could do was turn and stare at this character who seemed to be able to see him. For a moment he just stared, but once he was realizing that he was doing so, quickly stopped. Somewhere in his mind, he could hear the gentle voice of an aged woman telling him that it wasn't polite to stare, whatever 'polite' was.

The man was tall and slender - almost lean but his spindly frame looked more like sticks or perhaps rakes than anything else - and was cloaked in shadow. His skin had an ashy quality to it, making it appear gray; perhaps to a lesser extent in the night than it would be in the day. Now, he almost had a faint blue to his skin.

"Can you see me?" Jack had found himself blurting out after a short moment of silence, not quite sure how to register the golden eyes that seemed to be looking at him and not through him. The man seemed to have to process that for a second, straightening his posture and lifting his head a bit higher before finally responding with just a little nod. His expression showed that he had something he had considered to say, but instead chose to introduce himself to this infantile spirit (honestly, for a long time, he's not sure what Manny was doing, bringing back a child who had died at the wrong time, much less leaving him an amnesiac and with nothing but a name to go by.)

"I am Pitch Black," he says calmly, all the while observing the child _because that's all he'll ever really be in this big wide world, won't he_ before him. The look in his eyes certainly gave away his young age, but the haunted look that danced like a memory on his face made something obvious, something Pitch, somewhere deep inside in some recess of his mind he had long forgotten, wanted him to not have gone through so soon - he had been walked through, and more than once if he really looked hard enough. By all that would listen, he wasn't even 12 hours old yet (as far as Jack knew anyway).

An expectant moment passes between the two. Jack initially isn't sure what to do with that statement, and idly he thinks that perhaps he was supposed to then introduce himself. It felt as if this stranger might already know who he was - his earlier comment made it seem like he had been looking for him, but he decided to go with his gut and introduce himself to the maybe not-stranger.

"I-I'm Jack Frost," he says with all the nerves he can gather, holding onto his staff just a little tighter. It already felt like a familiar comfort to him (after all it had been with him his entire life up to this point, as short as he had thought it was).

"Then, hello, Jack Frost," Pitch says with the most passive, least hostile smile he can muster, careful not to show teeth. He didn't need the boy afraid - it'd probably be worse off for him if he was. Seraphina had told him to keep the boy company and prevent him from flying off halfway around the world until she could come pick him up, not scare the daylights out of him; and, honestly, he'd prefer to stay on her good side; even if he didn't personally care if he scared him.

"Hello, Pitch Black," Jack responds, feeling a little bit more comfortable now. The stranger - or Pitch now since he was the person he was the closest to at the moment - had a kind of imposing presence but seemed calm and nice now. "What are you doing here?" He gathers up the courage to ask a question, keep the conversation going. Pitch almost smiles again before he answers.

"Mother Nature asked me to stay with you until she could come get you herself. She shouldn't be too long."

"Whose Mother Nature?" He asks, his curious natural coming out in the increasingly relaxed and comfortable environment. (He would later realize - when thinking back on this moment - that Pitch actually had been quite cold - the way he would wrap his cloak tighter and tighter as the night had gone on. It, metaphorically, warmed his heart, for Pitch had never complained or moved away.)

"She is a... close friend of mine," Pitch chooses to go vague, suppressing the urge to raise an eyebrow at this child. It felt like he should know who she was; perhaps because he was just 'born' that he was ignorant (really, that had been the only word for it), but it still left an odd taste in his mouth.

"Oh," he said, nodding his head and unaware at the time of how odd it had sounded to Pitch. "What does she want with me?"

"Well, I'm not sure. You would have to ask her." Jack nodded a little, still obviously wanting to know more but holding his tongue; if Pitch didn't know, then he didn't know, right?

"Do you know when she's going to get here?" he asked instead after a few minutes of silence passed between the two, wishing that the quiet had not fallen between them. It made his head hurt.

"Not for a little while," was Pitch's calm response, studying the boy before him quietly as silence fell again. Jack fidgeted with his staff, clenching and unclenching his fists around it, tapping it lightly on the floor or against a wall, swaying it around, and the like. Pitch could almost find it amusing, and after a while found himself just an itsy bit drawn to the lovely patterns that would sprout which each touch of his staff on the wood, though admittedly they seemed a bit erratic at the time (though in the future he would understand why that was).

"So how did you get out here?" Pitch finally asked, forcing a calm inflection into his voice after another little while had passed; the tapping was beginning to just mildly grate on his nerves. It took Jack a second to register that he had been spoken to, initially jumping a little.

"I-I flew here…" Pitch just kind of gave a little 'okay' nod.

"Did you see anything while you flew here?" He inquires another few minutes later; he's not one for pleasant and passive conversation (with most spirits) but he had no intention of listening to that incessant tapping for the rest of the night.

"A-A few things.." he shrugged a little, trying to play it off like it hadn't been anything much. Pitch could already see it now in that sidelong glance and a bit of a lopsided, awkward grin; it would take some practice but there was no doubt that this boy would be a hellion. He suppressed a smirk and continued the topic at hand.

"Like what?"

"Just some different kinds of trees and some animals.."

"I thought they all would have left by now," Pitch shrugged halfheartedly, trying to insert some kind of comment into the conversation to give the implication that he was interested. Jack took it and continued, coming out of his shell again.

"I-I dunno," Jack shrugged as well, giving that grin again. "One of them was kind of big but not as big as a horse…" Pitch listened quietly to him as he began to ramble about the creature he had seen, which he mentally identified to be some kind of deer or stag. This was, admittedly, much better than the tapping. The boy talked a lot, but somehow that didn't bother him. He did, however, take a special kind of notice when he was trying to figure out how to describe what it looked like in-depth, and as he put a hand on the wall to lean, an image of the deer began to form from frost.

Pitch was, admittedly, a little impressed by the trick, even if it wasn't anything very practical. The boy didn't even seem to notice that he had done it initially until he turned his head and gave a startled yell that cut him off mid-sentence; then, a childish laughter bubbled forth.

"I didn't know I could do that!" He had cried with a kind of glee Pitch hadn't heard in awhile. He wasn't really sure how to feel about it; while obviously, he carried a job that brought caution and safety to the world, it would still often bother him a little when one would show everything that he couldn't be; especially given everything that he _had_ been and everything he _had_ done. But now it wasn't, and the strange lack of reaction in his head confused him a little. Still, he managed to respond within an appropriate time.

"Interesting trick, Frost," he said not unkindly and not untruthfully, giving a few slow claps. Jack was beaming and looking like he'd burst from the seams with excitement at just the mild praise, a light flush dusting frozen flesh. Pitch felt a little something warm that made him squirm a little, though Jack didn't notice.

The night devolved into some meaningless conversations and a pointless casualness that would mean nothing to any, nothing that any other spirit would ever know of and the words of long-lost history and tainted gold; and they let the words wash over them and they both forgot themselves for a long while.

And when Seraphina, Mother Nature, would finally arrive to pick up the boy as the sun began to rise would instead find the surprising sight of one Pitch Black, the King of Fearlings and Nightmares, quietly keeping watch of the white-haired child. She sidled up to him quietly and whispered in the voice of winds and rivers,

"You've grown attached, haven't you?"

"He will be a spectacular hellion," was all Pitch could say in a tone thought not possible to come from his mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

There was once when he met Pitch yet it wasn't with Pitch himself. Rather, he had seen one of those dark horses that seemed to always be lurking around the lair whenever he visited him. Pitch had always refrained him from every touching or getting a closer look (though he wasn't sure why; they were quite beautiful). This time, honestly, was not his fault that he happened to come across it as he flew. He had seen the mare flying yet galloping all the same, and it confused him as a young spirit (why was it running on the air?) He could see it too, a close-up look he had never quite gotten the chance to before. It was all sharp edges, cold and biting; nasty, the opposite of the golden tendrils he had seen from time to time and he did sort of realize why Pitch kept him away from them.

Despite what he had seen of it, his opinion didn't change; beautiful. There was something about the glittering black sand, and curiosity had him tail the horse for some time- until it darted over a forest and into its bushes, hidden. Being curious still, Jack had landed, looking around. And then, suddenly she stood there, watching him. Even closer than before; bright eyes and a shadowy mare, looking at him but not with malice or blankness. It looks at him with interest but does not approach, and neither does Jack. They stand and look at one another until Jack dares a step forward. The mare snorts and gives a stomp, but stays there.

He pauses and then takes a second step, and a third, then holding his hand out softly, resisting the urge to wince away; though the curling of his fingers and the bending of his arm to pull his hand away was obvious. The mare began to come closer of her own accord. He stood his ground but shut his eyes tight and turned his head; his nerves felt as though they were on fire. There was a little huff at this... Almost fear, from the horse(?) before a smooth but cool snout pressed into his hand.

The mare allows him to slide his hand up its chest and sift cold fingers through its mane. When he pulls his hand away finally, he remembers himself as a soft frost spreads over the moving sand and is shaken off inconsequentially.

He shakily begins to stroke up its nose again, and the mare lets him. It doesn't flee him, and instead presses up close. Jack takes a hesitant seat at the base of a tree and the lays down next to him, and he can't help but stare again. Closer, closer than ever before. He studies each grain and grit of sand and commits each to memory.

"Wonder what I should call you…" he murmured thoughtfully, looking lost as he began to sift his cool fingers through her mane, winning a small whinny of appreciation. It doesn't seem to mind his talking either, glittering eyes blinking slowly and.. Tiredly? "Marie.." he whispers almost inaudibly. He heard someone calling a 'Marie' earlier today and he thought it was such a beautiful name, and decided it fitting now. "What do you think about Marie?"

She seemed to sigh, almost like a shrug. "Marie it is then.." he nods to himself, continuing to pet her. It started slow, as he found himself beginning to talk more; first about nothing consistent. His days, stories he had that could drag on for hours, should he so please.

He found himself telling her things very few others knew; his sadness, his heart. It was only when he finished that he noticed the slightly less than gentle snowfall accumulation near him and the bits and pieces of ices entangling into the mare's very being, sparking mutely with a conjoined magic that didn't seem to bother her. He scrambled away quickly, and got to his face, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand while an empty feeling came over him. Jack Frost is sorrowful.

The mare stood and pressed the crest of its nose gently into his chest, and he finds himself slowly encircling his arms around the neck of the not-animal that now was taller than him, when it was shorter before, he was sure. His hands were tensed and gripping so tightly it nearly hurt him and the mare just bowed its neck and slid its head past his shoulder like to hug him back.

The frost child did not quite cry- the day had been too long for him to shed tears and he had already spilled his heart before. He just let out a low, sorrowful call that somewhat reminded himself he was, in fact, a fae, and the shadow mare no one else would have dared to approach other than to eliminate comforted him as best she could. They stood there for two days and two nights, and it wasn't until the third day that the child finally loosened his tight-knuckled grip on her, heart lighter but now asleep. The mare kept a gentle watch, scaring away her kin whenever they dared come near- and at some point, her Master arrived.

He surveyed the scene quietly. She knew he would not do anything to the frost boy, for she had seen him in the lair before. She did not feel the need to protect him but continued to lay close as little pale hands kept gentle but _needy_ holds in her mane. Her Master came near and slid his hand up her nose and along the side of her face in a gesture of something she hadn't quite seen before from him. The frost boy was making him soft, she was sure, and though sweet as fear had once tasted to her she could feel how her Master's, dare she say, heart, had grown. Suddenly the fear wasn't as enticing, so tempting. Suddenly there was something she found herself more interested in. _Her foal,_ she thought then, watching over him like a caretaker would a child.

"You are his," Pitch spoke softly. For a moment she suddenly felt weak, like something had been _removed_ from her very being, but then suddenly replaced with the cold that came from the frost-foal. At first, she shivered, feeling the new magic course in her veins, and then it went away. The cold of the snow suddenly became pleasant and comfortable. Surveying herself, she still held the black sand that made her what she was; black sand, harsh edges and biting cruelty. But within herself, she was held together by something else.

Her Master left as quickly as he had come.

And when Jack finally awoke, they departed from that place, flying together. If he thought it odd that the mare seemed a little bluer than before and was cold to the touch, he didn't comment or care.


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes, he hated how he looked. Sometimes he would look into his reflection and feel it looked _wrong_. It was all rather simple, actually.

How could he dare to look so innocent when his season was so deadly? How could he - dare he say - appear _beautiful_ by the standards of spirits when everyone hated him so? He was the bringer of cold and death, should he not be ice and sharp edges and biting cold?

He'd look down at his hands and wonder how he could look so small and frail, and yet do so much damage, hurt so many people and leave them alone, cold, starving, and for all his destructive power _be entirely unable to take it back-_

Once, he'd tried pretending to act like what he looked. Small and frail, not capable of raining such frozen hell, smiling all the time because who wants to see something so _pure_ with a _broken smile_ but it'd only end in catastrophe.

He stopped smiling in '68.

He remember very _distinctly_ the smile rotting away, all of his efforts and yet all it did was make everything worse.

 _Because 'e's Jack Frost, o'course. 'E can' do anythin' right._

…

He'd fly down to Antarctica, scream at the snow, scream at his feet, scream at the water, scream at the moon, and swear to himself that he'd build up a tower, a tower of cold and sharp edges that nobody would ever dare to enter, and that he'd live there, safe, alone, _harmless_ , merely supply an amount of power and let winter run its course from there. After all, he wasn't necessary; the season could run perfectly fine on its own, especially with Mother around, he assured himself.

That tower never came to be, though it came pretty well close on more than a few occasions. Still, one cannot find a tower no matter how hard they try and no matter what they say of Jack Frost all the way in the south. After all, Jack had a friend; a dear, close friend, who understood all the same, and reminded him that a life in isolation was no way to live at all _even if he was a little of a hypocrite_.

…

Jack doesn't hate how he looks anymore. Rather, he hates that he couldn't be there for his friend to give him the same advice once told to him, that comforted him and made him feel wanted, less alone and less utterly _hated_ with the sincerity and small amount of compassion and brutal honesty he often toted.

Everytime he goes down into those dark, dark caverns, he feels alone, and he feels dread, and he remembers that this is what is would have been like if he had made that tower; remembers that this is now who is friend is, who he has doomed himself to be. Then again, Jack was never the type to jump ship, especially not after he's owed so much.

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 **When ya'll are bored so you write something short and nonsensical.**


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